


Exchanges

by forgotten_constellation



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Creature Fic, Dom Harry Potter, Escort Harry Potter, Escort Service, Fantastic Racism, Fucking Machines, M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Praise Kink, Resolved Sexual Tension, Service Kink, Sex Work, Switching, THAT'S A THING? lol, Veela Draco Malfoy, Veela Mates, Werewolf Lavender Brown, Wing Kink, is there a tag for like. the opposite of a slow burn?, there's a bit of plot hidden in here but mostly it's just an excuse for smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27963665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgotten_constellation/pseuds/forgotten_constellation
Summary: “Got another Veela for you,” Lavender says, dropping a thick yellow dossier in front of Harry as she swans past his desk.“Oh?” Harry hums into his tea, picking it up with no small amount of curiosity. A referral, no doubt.Harry can feel Lavender’s eyes boring into his head, and he gives her an amused glance as he opens the folder. And then he pulls it back, glances down at the preliminary paperwork, and feels like the world might be rotating wildly out of place.ORHarry's an expert with Veela, and Draco Malfoy's only just come into his inheritance.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 193





	1. Chapter 1

“Got another Veela for you,” Lavender says, dropping a thick yellow dossier in front of Harry as she swans past his desk. 

“Oh?” Harry hums into his tea, picking it up with no small amount of curiosity. A referral, no doubt.

As with most things that concern the mind and magical mind tricks, Harry is resistant to the Allure, which is how he’d gained his reputation with British Veela in the first place. Harry’s always able to tell just who has spoken with one of his former clients--his work has given him a particular talent for sussing out who is or is not of creature inheritance. There’s the wide-eyed look of awe he gets from being the Boy-Who-Lived, and then there’s the tittering, curious stares of someone interested in his services. 

Harry has patiently soothed vampires anguished over their need for blood, and run soothing hands through the hair of werewolves tempering wolfsbane madness by being close to someone, and braved the instinctual flares of fire characteristic of those with phoenix or hellhound blood. What he’s most known for, however, is soothing the instincts of unmated Veela unable to suppress the tides of their seasonal heats and ruts. They’re lovely, if temperamental, and they can’t help but draw on the magic of their partners. Getting himself into the right headspace for a week with one of them is a long process.

Harry can feel Lavender’s eyes boring into his head, and he gives her an amused glance as he opens the folder. And then he pulls it back, glances down at the preliminary paperwork, and feels like the world might be rotating wildly out of place. 

“Draco Malfoy? No,” he tells her, brows rising.

“Oh, give him a chance, Harry--”

“I wasn’t refusing! That was more just. Surprise. Wow.”

But if there’s anything years and years of charmed, unkind messages have taught him, it’s the ability to recognize Malfoy’s neat, looping cursive script, down to the little flourish on his hanging letters. Harry skims the intake, learns that Malfoy presented only a year ago, that he’s an omega, that he’s been struggling to stabilize his magic, and he’s really lonely. He’s willing to house whoever helps him in his (surprisingly modest, if the pictures are anything to go by) Muggle London flat. He’s also willing to stay with whoever works with him, which means he’s fairly desperate, and Harry decides right away that this means they should absolutely just stick to the flat, where everything is comfortable familiar and he can just nest in peace. 

And then he stops himself from going any further down this road, because he hasn't said yes yet. 

Lavender is giving him a giddy look, like she can hear his thoughts. Chances are he was broadcasting them all over his face. He never has been good at  _ not  _ holding his heart on his sleeve.

“Lavender,” He begins.

“You love Veela.” She points out, needlessly.

“Most Veela are quite sweet.” Harry says.

Lavender rolls her eyes, which makes him flush. Only someone with power like his would ever be able to say that Veela are sweet.

“He asked for you.” She says, sing-song.

“Did he really, or are you taking the piss?” 

“Yes! Referred by a friend! Just give him a chance.” 

Harry is sure that the look he’s giving her is googly-eyed and unfocused, but he glances back down at the contents of the folder. There’s a space to explore any referrals, and Malfoy gives a clipped response about how a good friend of his (Samara, and Harry gives a fond little smile of remembrance--that’s the Veela with all the pretty brown skin, contrasting nicely with her shock of blond, tightly curled hair) recommended him, because he’s spent the last few seasons miserable in his room. He’s got a tentative position in the Ministry in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and his bosses are getting increasingly frustrated with his periodic dips into isolation. Harry feels a pang of sympathy at that. The Ministry can be difficult to work for at the best of times. It was part of why he’d dropped out of his training program, and certainly something that always falls firmly into the cons list when he finds himself considering a return.

“I’ll do it,” he says.

Lavender jumps up and down, clapping her hands. When she smiles widely, the scar on her face tugs against her lips, something he remembers her being ashamed of, those early days after the Battle of Hogwarts. As always, Harry is delighted to see her confidence. The days of watching her cover her mouth to laugh had been difficult, especially because Harry always remembered her as particularly mouthy in their school days. She’ll never be the same, not after Greyback’s attack, but he enjoys being part of why she smiles, these days.

“You, my friend, are the best escort in my business.” She says, ruffling his already unruly hair.

This statement draws several shrewd gazes their way, which makes Harry stick his tongue out. His coworkers know that she doesn’t mean it. Lavender takes her work very seriously. Wizards with creature heritage have enough difficulty making it through the day-to-day, so those who work with Lavender’s (aptly named) Interventions business are vetted carefully. Harry’s one of few plain old humans, but he’s also never been able to shake off the feedback of Voldemort’s power in his own magic, and he can take what many of their clients dish out. 

It’d been a bitter inheritance, that and Parseltongue, something that’d made him almost a mythical figure in the Auror department. Fearing that the Ministry was trying to control him, and mostly just plumb tired of fighting, Harry quit, spending a year living off of the glut of reparations that had been deposited into his accounts. Lavender and Hermione struck up a surprising friendship, after the war, and after being reintroduced, they’d hit it off well enough. All it took was a brief and baffling conversation about her business for Harry to shyly offer his services, and theirs was a partnership for the ages. Harry still likes helping people. He’s good at sex, if he does say so himself, and if there’s anything his status is good for, it’s putting others at ease during their worst moments. He’s a different kind of hero.

“Are you really gonna accept it?” Marlene asks as she swans over to his table. 

She’s half-Veela, freckly and strawberry-blond, strong and confident but also genuinely kind, and the unnatural grace with which she perches herself on Harry’s desk is old hat by now, but Harry’s always had a weakness for bold people. When she catches him blushing, she grins, twirling a lock of her hair in her hand.

“I’m an alpha, I could take care of him. I did his intake, the poor thing was in so much pain.” She says, peering down at the folder.

She reaches out and turns a few pages. Doctor’s records, his certification as a full-blooded Veela, and then finally lands on the picture he’d provided. Harry’s breath catches in his throat. Malfoy’s hair has grown, dusting his shoulders, and his iridescent wings are on full display, curling over his shoulders in a classic Veela show of self-comfort. He tilts his lips up into a half-smile, looking unfairly gorgeous even through the obvious exhaustion in the set of his eyes and strong shoulders. 

Several of Harry’s coworkers have gathered around him in curiosity. There’s Yasha, the Russian werewolf who has a weakness for cats and a booming laugh. There’s Liara, the vampire who still jokingly calls him Steak. Renly, the metamorphmagus who today has settled on a comical imitation of a wide-eyed monkey. Were this a busier day, Harry knows more of them would be pressing into him in the comforting warmth of their shared work room. Creatures are tactile in that way. Several wandering hands run through his hair and press onto his shoulders as they muse about Malfoy’s presentation, and what that means for them all. Malfoy getting a job with DRCMC had faced critical scrutiny from the wizarding community, especially because his family’s intolerant stance on magical creatures was a storied one, but as far as Ron and Hermione have reported, he keeps his head down and does good work. If this gets out-- _when_ this gets out--it’s going to have wider implications for more than just him. 

“He is beautiful,” Yasha says, frank as ever.

“Isn’t he just?” Liara hums, stroking a hand over the photo. 

“He was a twat in school.” Harry tells them, which elicits a few laughs.

“He was so sweet when he came in. One stroke of his feathers and he just about melted.” Lavender points out, which Marlene confirms.

“I said I’d do it, already.” He sighs. They’re all laying it on pretty thick.

Harry signs off on the agreement, and rolls his eyes good-naturedly as his coworkers hoot and cheer.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco is surprised when Lavender Brown sends him the message that Harry bloody Potter has accepted his request, but he figures he’s got a bad habit of looking gift horses directly in their mouths, so he goes along with it. They spend a few days sending paperwork back and forth with Betelgeuse, Draco’s spoilt eagle owl, who Potter always bribes with treats. 

They meet just once to discuss their terms, at Potter’s inherited Grimmauld Place. Draco has nothing but terrible early memories of the place. In his memory, it’s dark and dirty and warded by a sneering, shuffling house elf, but it looks nothing like it once did when he pops in. It's warm and inviting, with new wallpaper and the windows pulled open to fill it with light, a magically expanded garden in the back yard. A good portion of the living room is messily covered in a blanket on the floor and children’s toys, with a Muggle telly-vision standing watch over the room. 

“Those are Teddy’s. He’s asked about you a few times, you know,” Potter adds, which surprises Draco into a momentary silence, “he wants to meet you.” 

He hadn’t thought Andromeda Tonks would have anything at all to say about him--especially nothing good. Touched (it’s the stupid hormones), Draco extracts a promise to set up a play date.

Potter’s a consummate professional. He asks if Draco likes to nest with blankets or clothes, what kinds of sweets he likes (because veela are obsessed with them--and shouldn’t that have been a sign, all those years ago? Or maybe the incurable anger that followed that rejection, with their entire year watching?), if he’d rather not have his wings touched, if he’s okay with letting Harry cook. He takes careful notes, and then even says, “I know you’re probably nervous. That’s okay. I hope you’ll give me a chance to take care of you.” 

It’s not gutter talk, but it sends a shock of arousal through him anyway. “Okay,” he says, swallowing every other question he has.

And then they break, and don’t see each other again for a few days. Potter continues to send him questions, and also gifts. Draco shrieks in outrage at the gaudily colored vibrator (but he keeps it, and uses it), and spends hours purring and rolling around in a coat absolutely covered in Potter’s scent. Potter sends candies, and bracelets, and thick nesting blankets, probably knowing full well that it’s making Draco’s head get big. Someone being so open about courtship when he’s nearing a heat is bound to make him a little crazy, but that’s the point, isn’t it? To give himself the illusion that he’s loved and cared for, if only for a time?

Draco’s allowing himself a moment of leisure in his living room when Potter’s stupid head pops through his floo, all flyaway hair and boxy spectacles. Draco had been laying naked and indolent on his couch, one of his wings thrown over the back and the other folding into his wooden floors, his ankles locked together as he gazes unseeingly at a muggle novel. He’s been reading through the ghastly horrors of a Stephen King, lately, puzzled at it all, but endlessly fascinated.

He jolts when he hears the pop of magic, and then again when Potter calls his name--he always calls him Draco, even though Draco himself hasn’t been able to make it past surnames just yet.

“Yes?” He snaps, not bothering to hide himself. 

Potter sweeps his intense gaze over Draco’s form, and despite himself, Draco preens at the naked appreciation he sees in those green eyes, lingering for just a moment on his back. 

“You’ll get your wings dirty if you leave them on the floor like that.” Potter points out.

“How dare you! I take perfect care of my wings.” Draco replies, genuinely stung by the warning. He hates himself for the hint of a whine that’s found its way into his voice. 

“Shh,” Potter soothes, “I’m sure they’re perfectly clean. I’m sorry. You look lovely,” He adds, uselessly. 

“I know that.” Draco sniffs, turning back to his book. 

Potter chuckles at him, a low rumbling sound. “Listen, Draco, I was just calling to check in on you. How are you feeling? Do you need anything from me? Any cramps?” 

“A few…” He answers. 

Before he can help himself, he’s gone on a little tirade. He complains about how his wings are throbbing where they meet his back, and how sometimes he’s suffused with a disgusting sadness, and how Betelgeuse had affectionately preened his hair this morning and it’d been the only thing that motivated him to get out of the door and go to work. Potter makes appropriately sympathetic noises, and offers suggestions that speak to expertise. He might ask someone he trusts to bring him a hearty meal--is he eating enough? Veela apparently need a lot of calories, whatever those are. He’s sorry about the sadness, that’s just bound to happen while he’s unmated and nearing a heat. He smiles and says Betelgeuse is a good bird, if a little fat, and there’s nothing wrong with cuddling him if he’s feeling lonely.

“And I can massage your wings for you if they hurt.” 

“Please, please do that. Right now.” Draco blurts. 

Potter blinks, and then he’s glancing over his shoulder. His head pops out of existence, but the momentary disappointment of losing sight of him is solved by him stepping through Draco’s floo. On a good day, Draco would scold him for entering without asking, but mostly he just wants to be touched, so he closes his book and stares nervously as Potter kneels by his couch. He leans close, slowly, giving Draco just enough room to move away if he wants. He doesn’t. Potter presses a kiss onto his temple, and then a warm, calloused hand cups the back of his neck. He squeezes, just lightly enough for Draco to feel the pressure of it, and he lets out an embarrassing trilling noise and sinks his face into the arm of his couch.

“There, that’s nice, isn’t it?” Potter hums. 

He strokes the back of Draco’s head, fingers gentle in his hair, and then slides his hand teasingly down Draco’s back, completely ignoring his wings. Draco flares them, just in case he forgot, and Potter laughs as he gets a face full of feathers, sputtering through his name.

“What are you doing?” Draco complains. 

“Just taking care of you. Be still.” The command is made lightly, but it’s enough to make Draco melt again, especially at the approving little noise Potter lets out.

Draco’s embarrassed to feel a growing erection pressing into the worn softness of his hand-me-down couch, and when he gives a restless little shift, the friction is nice enough that another trilling sound builds in his throat, which Potter chuckles at.

His hand travels its leisurely way south, stopping to appreciatively cup the weight of Draco’s ass, and then over the back of his thighs. He shuffles over on his knees, and puts both hands to work, pulling the tension out of his feet, and then his calves. His hands dip up, up, up, cresting into his inner thighs, thumbs pressing just on the curve of his cheeks. 

“I think you might be ready soon, Draco,” Potter says, and though his voice is thick, there’s this conversational tone to it that Draco is dying to break. “Are you wet?” 

“Why don’t you check?” Draco asks. (He is, for the record. He can feel it.)  


Potter just laughs and moves his hands up, and then his fingers are delving gently into the many folds of his feathers, and the rolling heat that runs through Draco's body has him bucking forward. 

“I can wait. Good?” 

“Yes,” Draco gasps, following the urge to buck his hips forward again, scoring the sensitive head of his cock against the couch.

“Your wings are very pretty, Draco. Do you ever fly?” Potter asks, like they’re just having a normal conversation and Draco is not close to falling apart completely.

“Sometimes, with my friend Samara.” He chokes out. That reminds him, he needs to save up and send her a hefty gift basket. 

"Do you think you might be able to fly with her again for me? Maybe that will help." Potter suggests. It's the best idea in the whole world.

He’d been dismissive and pouty and angry at the mere suggestion of ever seeking Harry Potter out for anything, but the utter bliss he’s feeling now makes seven years of aggravation and some of the resentment that followed feel starkly petty, in retrospect. 

Potter squeezes, briefly, at the place where his wings burst forth from his back, answering Draco’s whine with a crooning sound. He tugs and he pulls and he presses forward, working from the center out, not afraid to stand up to reach, and kneel back down to follow Draco's shudder like a wave, knuckles delving deep into delicate bones and through feathers. When Draco starts to rock forward onto the couch, Potter says, “Oh, are you feeling good?” and then laughs when Draco calls him a frustrating son of a whore and a half-blood bastard and the worst thing that’s ever happened to the world. He’s vocal, and firm, not relenting even when Draco whimpers out that it might be too much, telling him to just let go. 

He leans down, and presses a warm kiss just behind Draco’s ear, and it’s this that finally makes him break, biting down restlessly on the arm of his couch. His teeth, by now elongated, tear into the material like a hot knife into butter, and he sobs his relief into as he comes, spurting his relief in several intense bursts. He starts thrashing as aftershocks roll through him, but then Potter presses a hand into the center of his back with an unfair amount of strength to still hill him, and Draco can smell the magic he uses to keep him there, can _taste_ it electric on his tongue, and he feels a bit like maybe his soul is leaving his body. 

“That’s it. You did so good, Draco. Thank you,” Potter is saying, tucking his hair behind his ear, kissing his sweaty forehead as he comes down. 

He briefly touches Draco’s wings, and it really is too much this time, the pleasure cresting well into pain. Draco lets out a rumbling growl of warning, and Potter quickly removes his hand, unoffended. He rubs Draco’s back, and kneels there with him for a good while, humming about what a good job he did, how pretty he is, how sweet he is, how well he listens. Potter gently coaxes him into getting his teeth out of the couch, which is briefly and powerfully embarrassing, especially because what he really wants is to turn his head and bite Potter instead. Potter just fixes it with a wave of his hand, that intoxicating magic scent once again rising into the air. The praise does horrible things to Draco’s mind, builds him up, makes him feel like the most powerful person in the world, with someone like Potter kneeling in worship by his side.

“Are you okay? Want to get your face out of the couch for me?” Potter asks, around a laugh. 

Bashful, Draco says, “I’ll bite you if I do.” 

“You can bite me, I don’t mind.” Potter says, because of course he does. He’s apparently still as brain dead as he was in their school days.

When Draco turns his head, Potter presses the fleshy side of his thumb towards Draco's face, and doesn’t even flinch when Draco lets out a little noise and then gently presses his teeth into his skin. It’s not enough to break the skin, but it soothes the urge, and the indent he leaves behind is pleasing enough to see that he can’t help a smug little smile. Potter laughs.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks. 

Draco nods. Potter pulls him into a toe-curling kiss, tongue sweeping firmly past Draco’s lips. It’s a short little thing, and Draco nips restlessly at him when they part. Potter waves his hand again, cleaning charms washing over Draco and his couch, and then he turns Draco to face him, resting a hand on his hip, careful not to upset his wings, which Draco has pulled as tightly to him as possible, if only to minimize stimulus.

Because Draco was raised with manners, he says, “Thank you.” 

“No, thank _you_.” Potter says. 

He’s breathing shallowly, his eyes bright with want, and when Draco peers down at his trousers, he feels once again triumphant at the bulge straining against the heavy denim. He reaches out to touch it, but Potter grabs his wrist, firm but gentle. “Not yet.” 

“Why not?” 

Potter gives him an embarrassed look. “I won’t last long, and I don’t want you feeling like I can’t keep up with you.”

Draco scoffs, even though he’s privately pleased that Potter even cares. It’s probably the principle of the thing, or the pride of a trained professional, but still. “That’s stupid, Potter. We’ll have a whole week!” 

But Potter can’t be convinced. He stands, which has Draco frantic, though he tamps down on the feeling with a frown. He’s expecting Potter to walk back to the floo, but he just takes off for the kitchen, and after a little while, Draco can smell the leftovers from the lasagna Samara makes just for him. His coworker at the DRCMC, she’d taken him under her wing when he’d confessed to her about his presentation. She’s also one of his only friends--many of his year mates fled England after the war, and mother hasn’t been speaking to him since he presented. Father’s in Azkaban, so his opinion matters very little. Goyle checks in on him periodically, as is his wont, but Draco hasn’t revealed his presentation yet, half worried that will be the end of the tentative but genuine friendship they’d eked out over the years. 

Potter returns with a couple of plates, which brings Draco out of his maudlin thoughts. They eat together, chatting about their work and where they’ve been. Potter’s surprisingly easy to talk to, witty and curious and calmly unbothered by Draco’s occasional bouts of prickliness. Before he leaves, he asks Draco if he’ll be okay on his own, gives him a parting kiss tasting of cheese and tomatoes, and is gone in a spark of the floo. 

Draco waits until he’s sure Potter is gone before letting out a high, giggling shriek, half horror and half delight. 


	3. Chapter 3

There’s a reason it takes so much to prepare for time with a Veela of any blood concentration, and Draco Malfoy quickly reminds him why. 

Exhibiting some courting behaviors isn’t necessary, but experience had taught him that it certainly eased the way. It builds trust, lowersinstinctively raised hackles. It pays to take heed of a Veela’s wants and needs, and even more frivolous things like personal favorites. Harry has to remind himself of this, when he meets with Malfoy, who despite living entirely on his own hard-earned salary for years is quite content with being spoiled, even though he plays like he isn’t. All the protests are cursory, all of the blushing nothing on a pleased little smile. And he returns the gifts, in his own ways, mailing rare magical books he’d (illegally) recovered from the seizure of all Malfoy estates in Britain and on the continent, or sending over his plump little owl with a little wrapped block of stubbornly (horribly) homemade treacle tart attached to his letters. 

Typically the courting leading up to the heat is half of the fun, for Harry, but this one keeps him delightedly wrong-footed. Draco is chatty, in full possession of a cutting wit or a nicely perfected whine. Harry finds himself being lead this way and that in common conversations, and when he cottons onto it and gives Draco a smile of warning, Draco just grins at him like he’s proud and opens up authentically. 

Also, Harry’s been doing something he usually doesn’t do. He’s touched a client before the set-in-stone date of their time together. He can pass some of it off as attentive: Veela can charitably be called needy (not that there's anything wrong with neediness--it’s part of what Harry likes about them, if only because a life with the Dursleys made feeling wanted more intoxicating than any drug), and Malfoy is young and new to it all. But Lavender had given him a raised eyebrow for hours after he stepped back into Interventions’ floo smelling of Draco, and she’d raised both of her brows high in genuine surprise when a genuine strain on his magic had him swaying in abrupt exhaustion.

The last time Harry felt any kind of intense strain on his magic was that day during the Battle of Hogwarts, at the end of it all, when Voldemort’s own stupid curse rebounded on him and the Elder Wand snapped its desperate allegiance back into Harry's core for the last time.

Veela siphon power. It’s in their nature, stabilizes them. But none have ever pulled from him as intensely as Draco Malfoy did during a simple heated moment where Harry hadn’t even been consciously participating in the transfer. He needs to stockpile his energy. So, he figures, two birds with one stone, and cheerily drives Draco up the wall by refusing to leave him alone. Draco is clearly baffled but not displeased by his insistence on sharing a good meal when they have the time. They fall back into their rhythm of immensely rude banter, but it’s colored by this anticipatory energy. It is giddy and new and shaky. Sometimes when Harry makes Draco laugh, really laugh, he tilts his head back with the strength of it, and Harry can see the light glinting off of the fangs that are difficult for a Veela to hide if they’re feeling true attraction. Draco hisses and swats at Harry’s hand if Harry reaches for his plate, but he’s chuffed as can be if Harry offers to share some of his own food, not even bothering to be shy about the way his pink lips purse around Harry’s fingertips in the progress, or the flicking of his tongue. 

Harry’s resistant to the allure (“It’s because there’s so little going on in that thick skull of yours, Potter.”), but he’s not immune to it, and he’s certainly familiar with its effects. Draco knows how to exploit a toss of his hair, knows which colors look nice on him, is rapidly learning what tests Harry’s patience. Once he learns that Harry’s favorite color is red, he throws artful red scarves around his neck, and paints his nails a distinctly Gryffindor red with varnish, and makes a show out of having no idea what Harry’s pointed questions are about. When Harry comes to visit, sometimes he might perch himself on Harry’s lap like he belongs there, though he does shudder delightfully if Harry trails the back of his hands along the elegant slope of his neck, along his collarbones, down to where his wings will unfold from his back. On days when he does let his wings out, he makes a show of displaying them, and is reduced to a blond puddle of goo when Harry indulges him and strokes his feathers. 

The push and pull makes sense for them. Looking back on their years in Hogwarts with this new insight makes Harry wish he’d followed Hermione’s many suggestions to crack open a book or two about the magical world. They’d been pulling each other’s pigtails so roughly they may well have left bruises. Of course, it all changed in Sixth Year, but it’s something that rests in the back of Harry’s mind as particularly interesting. Has Draco always been set on him? It’s a silly thought. Something like that is one in a million. But still, he thinks. He remembers. Veela don’t take rejection well. It’s one of the first things he learned about them. It’s why he works so hard to make his Veela clients feel wanted. Some of his work is rooted in lowball pretense, like any other job. That’s just how things are. Some people seem to think that sex work does not require some of the same will-power as anything else. Harry loves his job, but sometimes it takes coffee and compartmentalizing and psyching yourself up. (Harry doesn’t have to do as much of that, this time, aside from going easy on his magic.)

Draco breaks some of their playful rhythm by asking point blank, “Why won’t you fuck me?” 

Harry coughs, wiggles in place. Draco tightens his powerful legs around Harry’s waist when he makes an aborted attempt to stand up. His wings flare out in an instinctive bid for balance, like he’s afraid Harry will drop him, so Harry curls a hand around his waist to settle him.

“Where is this coming from?” Harry asks, amused even though he wishes he wasn’t. 

Behind them, Harry’s television is droning on, some trash reality program about ill-behaved young adults dropped into a desert to complete any number of ridiculous tasks. Draco loves the show because he likes to make mean jokes about the ones who put themselves in danger. He still talks to the television like the people behind him can hear it, haughty and self satisfied with his assessments, which makes even the most boring program uproariously funny.

“Look,” Harry says, weakly, “they have to let scorpions crawl all over them for this challenge.” 

“Riveting.” Draco says, flatly. Then he frowns and asks, “Do you not want me?” 

“What? Are you daft? No! I mean, yes! I want you! Oh, bugger.” 

“Please answer my question.” 

So Harry sighs. He reaches out for the remote, and cuts the television off, plummeting Grimmauld Place into a fraught silence. Draco stares down his nose at him, and then shifts around, filling the space of the plush chair they sit in for a lazy day. Its sideways position makes it easy to settle in and stare crane-necked at the TV, and is just big enough for a cuddly Veela to curl themselves tight around a potential mate. 

“How much do you know about, er, mating cycles?” Harry asks. 

It feels weird to be asking a bonafide Veela this, but Draco had been raised as an ordinary Pureblood wizard, and is new to all this besides. 

“I know enough.” Is Draco’s infuriating answer. 

Harry pinches Draco’s arse in retribution, which has the unintended side-effect of making him _purr._ Harry is going to go lightheaded from all the blood that’s rushing rapidly south.

“What do you know about sharing magic?” He asks. 

Draco hums, purses his lips. “I know that it happens sometimes when they--when _we’re_ with someone. Sometimes Samara and I share with each other if we’re not feeling well.”

Harry nods. “That’s not uncommon. Veela share magic with their children as well. It’s just that, it’s something you have to be _aware_ of to stop. Once you find a mate, you’ll need to draw on them to keep your head above water. And you’re not quite good at, er, not doing it? The drawing, that is?” 

He’s not expecting for Draco to jump up from the chair as if burned, and for the unsettled look on his face. “Have I been hurting you?” 

“No, no, no, hey,” Harry says, splaying his hands wide. “You didn’t know. And when you’re in heat, we’ll have to share. You told me you’re always exhausted after. We’re trying to avoid that. We haven’t had sex because I’m trying to make sure that I can keep you satisfied when the time comes.”

“Yes, but you might have told me I could have sucked you _dry_ , Potter,” Draco snaps. 

He growls, and throws his hands up, nails lengthening the slightest bit. Any longer and they will be talons.

Gently, Harry says, “Are you scared, Draco?” No response. He continues. “I understand if you are. I know the first change can be… traumatic.” 

He’s gratified when this, at least, gets a snort out of Draco, and then an eye-roll as he putters off, by now comfortable enough with Grimmauld Place to find his way around. Harry lets him go, watches with a small bit of sadness as those pretty wings curl tightly around his shoulders. When at last he returns, his hands are filled with the little pack of eclairs Harry bought for him. He doesn’t take his place back on Harry’s lap, but he does sit quietly at Harry’s feet, which does weird things to Harry’s stomach. It’s a display of trust, if any, coming from an omega, especially as he pops open the plastic, begins munching away, and rests his head against Harry’s knee. Harry doesn’t think he even realizes what he’s doing. 

At length, he says, “I don’t like researching it. You’re well aware I was… raised a certain way. I’ve been trying. You know, to be better. But when you’ve always heard certain things about what you are, it’s…” He trails off, restlessly running a hand through his hair. His nails catch on some of the snags of his tighter waves, which makes him glare at his hand with an undue amount of venom. Harry reaches out and takes his hand, and is by now familiar enough with a Veela’s powerful grip not to wince when Draco squeezes. 

“Not to mention, it’s difficult for me to just march into a library and ask where to find books about magical creatures, or check them out. The last time I tried, the librarian seemed convinced that I was trying to find a way to trap some poor Veela to have my wicked way with.”

“Does it help? Talking with Samara?” Harry asks, running his thumb along Draco’s knuckles.

Draco nods. “Of course it does. But she’s been living with this her whole life, and she has trouble explaining things to me at times.” 

“I’m sorry.” Harry says, knowing that it’s not enough. 

Draco rolls his eyes at him. Then, he tilts a salacious smile up at Harry. “If I promise to practice, will you fuck me?” 

Harry squeezes his hand. “No.” 

The pout this earns is absolutely legendary, but Harry was once given the opportunity to choose eternal rest and chose life anyway. He’s good at being stubborn.

He knows he’s going to regret it. Sure enough, a lazy day strolling through a muggle shopping mall (peppered with Draco’s genuine questions about how it all works) ends with Draco dragging him into a dressing room, where he demands Harry watch him slowly dress and undress, trying out carefully planned outfits. Harry is fond of his wings, but with them tucked in he can see Draco has moles scattered here and there on his back, and the arc of it is tantalizing to view from the side. Harry feels his stomach drop with want at the sight of two identical dimples just above the swell of Draco’s arse. He imagines dipping his thumbs into them, and immediately stuffs his knuckles between his teeth to cope.

When Draco is done, he somehow manages to swindle Harry into buying every article of clothing for him. They walk out of the store with Harry in a daze, and then Draco removes his hand from Harry’s forearm, and clarity comes rushing back in with expediency, the allure breaking away like so much shattered glass. A surge of true frustration rises within him, but then Draco raises his brows in mock alarm as Harry turns to him with a thunderous look, and Harry deflates.

It’s in a Veela's nature to put up a fight with a potential mate, first playful and then earnest. It’s a way to test the waters, and then to prove they chose the right person. And, again, they don’t take rejection well.

“You won that round.” Harry concedes the loss. 

Draco smirks. “I’m glad you agree. I thought you were an expert, Potter?” 

He _is_ an expert, Harry doesn’t say, as he wordlessly takes the bags off of Draco’s hands, much to his poorly disguised delight. He wants to remind Draco that he was putty under his hands not a few hours ago. In an amazing show of self-restraint, he settles for saying, “You can look at my license if you want to, Draco.” 

The laughter is worth it. 

Draco tries everything under the sun. He asks Harry to feed him and then slides Harry’s fingers into his mouth, tongue skillful on Harry’s skin. He continuously tries and fails to bake treacle tart, which is mostly just adorable until he smiles and asks Harry to lick the remains of it off of his skin. He bends and stretches and sighs. He whispers in Harry’s ear and bites down on his earlobes. 

Harry does cave and allow for kisses, which almost derails because Draco is dismayed by his inability to contain his fangs. He’s briefly terrified that he’s somehow going to rip Harry’s lips clean off his face, which is in all honesty a reasonable fear, but then Harry makes the stupid mistake of displaying that his magic is just going to stitch most of his minor injuries rapidly back together. That particular night ends with Draco trembling and insensate on his bed after Harry talks him through a few rounds with the vibrator he claims to hate. 

Draco struts around his flat naked, or shows up at Grimmauld Place naked underneath gorgeous robes, which almost deteriorates into a disaster when he stops by on a day Teddy is in for a visit. Teddy is delighted to see him, and Draco is almost reduced to blubbering when Teddy turns his hair the same white-blond as Draco’s. Omegas love children. Harry had been planning to take him to a petting zoo to soothe this particular ache, but this is probably the next best thing. Better than, even. Teddy is a funny, confident, well-loved nine-year-old who is rarely afraid to hold a conversation with anyone. He solemnly agrees to keep Draco’s secret when Draco displays his wings with a secretive glee.

“Nan says we’re cousins,” Teddy tells him, which makes Draco smile in a dopey way Harry has never seen before. 

“We are! It’s so nice to finally meet you, Edward,” Draco says, for what must be the fifth time, and Teddy must be filled with true hero worship, because he just beams back up at him and doesn’t protest being called by his full name.

Harry just watches them for a little while, as Teddy laughingly explains how Legos work to Draco, and they trade stories about their favorite muggle TV shows and stories. It feels mind-bogglingly unreal, to see Draco lying contentedly on the floor among the colorful blocks and the drawings Teddy raced up the stairs to retrieve for Draco. (He'd cooed appreciatively at the sight of all them and then charmed them to move, which Teddy found unbelievably cool.) They look beautifully at home, these two relatives, the Veela and the metamorphmagus. Harry catches himself thinking that they are two of some of the most important people in the world to him, so he buries the longing in his chest by gulping down tea and then making a show of stomping over to join them at the little tree house they are trying to assemble. 

Later, after Teddy has given Draco and then Harry a tight hug and struggled his sleepy way upstairs for sleep, Draco turns delighted eyes on Harry and says, “He’s just wonderful.” 

Harry smiles. “Isn’t he?” 

Draco’s contented mood is disrupted just a little bit by the reminder that Andromeda will be coming in the morning to pick Teddy up. He waves off Harry’s offer to introduce the two of them, and then kisses him sweetly goodnight by the door. The reminder shakes Harry a bit, too. He doesn’t ever share specifics about his clients with his friends and family, and he would never divulge Draco’s secret without his permission, but it’s sobering to remember just how entangled they truly are. It’s the first time he considers calling the whole thing off, though he quickly dismisses the idea. He just wishes he’d considered professional distance in all of this. There’s no way Teddy will tolerate not having Draco in his life (and quite the inverse, too, he thinks.)

In the days that follow, the guilt sparks Harry’s creativity. 

“Maybe I can’t fuck you right now but,” Harry begins, at the beginning of one of their visits.

Draco immediately perks up. “But I can fuck you? 

Harry cracks up. “Would you like that?” 

“As a matter of fact, I would.” Says Draco, very seriously. 

He stretches out, and throws his feet into Harry’s lap in an unsubtle request for a massage, smirking over at him.

“Noted. Not right now, though.” Harry says, swallowing.

Draco deflates, so Harry continues. “But I have something that could fuck you instead. It’s a, uh, machine. A muggle machine.” 

He very determinedly does not look at Draco as he begins working at the knots of tension in his feet, which works until Draco raises one of them and uses his big toe to tilt Harry’s chin up. The flinty-eyed look he’s shooting Harry’s way immediately tells him he might have made a mistake. 

“It won’t be the same.” He says, voice flat. 

“No,” Harry agrees, tilting his head and then wincing as Draco drives his toe deeper into the underside of his chin. “But I’ll be there, and it could give you some relief. I realize I’ve been teasing you.” 

“Oh, you realize it _now_ , do you, Potter?” Draco laughs, and then he throws his head back over the arm of his couch, the same one he’d dug his teeth into the first time Harry made him come. 

“Will you just think about it?” 

“No,” Draco whines, which means yes. 

Sure enough, it just takes a few more well-placed reminders, and one frank explanation of how it works for Draco to cave, because “something’s got to do Harry’s bloody job.”

On the day of, Harry asks Draco to wait for him in his bedroom. He puts up a fuss, but gives in, and when Harry arrives to greet him, he looks flush and pretty with slinky little jewelry adorning his bare skin, low-hanging necklaces and an anklet that tinkles musically as he turns on his side to face Harry, looking just a little bit like an angel as the midday sun hits him through his open curtains. 

Draco, who just a few minutes ago was yelling complaints about the machine through the door, is now eyeing it with a wide-eyed, open curiosity as Harry hauls it into his bedroom behind a levitating case, which makes Harry laugh.

“You ready?” Before he can once again complain about their lack of progress, Harry sweetens the pot by adding, “I’ll open you up.” 

Draco flushes. Flashes his tellingly sharp teeth in a sneer. Then he nods. “Get on with it, then.”

Rolling his eyes to hide how much he wants to fondly observe him, languid and resplendent on his bed with his wings laid out, Harry says, “Brilliant.”

Draco watches as he goes about setting the thing up. Harry is able to plug it in with relative ease. He’d been pleasantly surprised to find a few electrical outlets scattered here and there in Draco’s apartment. There are a few other articles around the place that’d had Harry’s brows rising in pleasant surprise--a growing collection of muggle novels annotated in tight little script in the margins, a Gameboy in impeccable shape accompanied by Pokemon games of all things, the odd lamp or untouched toaster. If Draco’s truly affectionate friendship with Samara and the other members of his department (all of various blood status and not a few creatures besides) hadn’t been any indication of change for Draco Malfoy, this would be. 

“Can you get on your hands and knees for me?” Harry asks, unable to contain the purr in his voice. “I need to make sure it’s at a good height.”

And Draco rolls his eyes at this, but he rises up with a proud little ruffle of feathers and his head held high, and turns over in one sensuous movement, lovely blond waves spilling over his shoulders as he presents himself for Harry’s view. After Harry’s dumbstruck silence lasts several long seconds, he lowers a wing and glances worriedly over his shoulder, but whatever he sees on Harry’s face makes him grin.

“Like what you see, Potter?” He trills.

“Harry,” he corrects him, earning another dismissive noise, “and yes.”

He gets to work, setting things up. He cranks the main apparatus to what he thinks would be a good enough height, and then reaches into his supply kit and affixes a nicely sized, flesh-colored dildo to the end of its outstretched arm. This needy and this close to his heat, Draco is probably producing a healthy amount of slick, but that doesn’t stop Harry from slathering it with lube after covering it in a condom. He pulls the machine up towards Draco’s bed, and then reaches out to curl a firm hand around one of Draco’s hip, pulling him back. It’s a good height.

Draco lets out a trill of anticipation and follows, glowing with the pleasure of just being touched. As with the past few times, Harry can feel the intoxicating swirl of his magic calling out to meet him, the low thrum of Veela allure helping it along the way.

“Can I kiss you?” Harry asks.

“You had better.” Draco sighs, like it’s a great chore.

Ever since Harry soothed his fears about his teeth, and blood and accidents, he’s been especially happy to get them. Sure enough, he opens easily for Harry’s mouth as he leans in, a gentler sigh falling from his mouth as Harry curls a hand into his hair and guides him. He’s expecting the sharp nip on his bottom lip, and laughs into Draco’s mouth at the way he outright growls at how quickly Harry’s magic rises to heal him. 

Draco pulls him onto the bed with a savage kind of strength, creamy thighs falling open for Harry. Harry leans back, admiring the dark red tint of blood on his lips, and the tightness of his little pink nipples. Harry bends his head to nip at one of them, soothing the sting by drawing the flat of his tongue over it. Draco lets out a throaty little noise, burying his hands in Harry’s hair. He pulls him back up, humming as Harry trails a curious hand along the plain necklace resting on his collarbones. The metal has been warmed by his skin, simple inter-woven links of what Harry is sure is real gold. 

Draco’s erection presses insistently into Harry’s lower belly, no doubt leaving a stain on the worn t-shirt he’d chosen to wear, knowing that skin-to-skin contact would be too much temptation and also that Draco’s too sensitive to weather anything tougher than a gauzy shirt and soft joggers. He’s surprised when one of Draco’s wandering hands reaches down to cup him through those joggers, mumbling under his breath about how Harry feels good in his hand and how he wishes he’d just take them off. 

“No,” Harry says against his mouth, perhaps a little meanly. 

He casts a wordless sticking charm on his glasses, and Draco doesn’t know what he cast but it’s clear that he felt it, because he jerks towards Harry’s face and breathes in deeply, and then rests his forehead against his neck.

Draco squeezes him, and the pressure is lovely enough that Harry drops his head onto Draco’s with a groan. When he laughs, Harry retaliates by pulling away. He forestalls protests by pushing Draco down against the bed, and then dropping a kiss over his heart. The trail of kisses begins, flows down the muscled planes of his stomach, and then around where his cock is dripping with precum and onto the seam of his hips instead. He reaches up to curl his hand around the back of one of Draco’s knees, and can’t contain another groan when Draco takes his lead and bends his leg back with apparently little effort or real thought, baring himself for Harry to see. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes out, breath warm over Draco’s tight balls, which makes him shudder. 

Harry takes one of them into his mouth, savoring the taste and the smell of him, and as Draco squirms he trails a hand close and reaches below, pressing briefly at his perineum and then feeling dipping his fingers towards his puckered hole, swallowing at the wet heat he finds there. Draco reaches down to stroke himself, and he only has a second to restlessly complain at the way Harry removes his hand, because Harry wraps a hand around him, gently pulling his foreskin back and then sucking the head of his cock into his mouth. The lazy spill of his precum is heady and salty on Harry’s tongue, and he takes a deep breath before moving down, his tongue swirling lazily along the length of him.

“Yes, Harry, please,” Draco says, always so tender like this, his hips tilting up. 

Harry’s finger sinks into him as easy as anything, and they both let out shuddering breaths. Draco’s leg hooks over his shoulder, his heel digging into Harry’s back as Harry tests the waters with one gentle thrust of his finger, savoring the clinging heat of him. Harry curls his finger, searching, reading the minute hitch of Draco’s breath and the buck of his hips. He gives him another finger, spreading them out in one suspended moment, making him feel the stretch. 

Harry glances up at him, bobbing his head. Draco’s silvery eyes are locked on his face, and when they lock gazes a whimper rumbles out of his lips that feels like it’s loud enough to rattle the entire room. Harry hums around him, drawing another delicious sound from his lips, and he meets the restless squirm of his hips by pushing his fingers in an insistent rhythm, teasing at his prostate but never reaching it the way Harry knows he wants. He goes slow, powerful, coaxing him into a rolling motion that sends his cock towards the back of Harry’s throat each time he tilts his hips really far up, like it’s too much. 

One of Draco’s hands curls back into his hair, not pulling or guiding but just resting, as he throws his other arm over his eyes. He’s a vision this way, frantic but wonderfully responsive, opening for Harry like it’s second nature. When Harry finally hits his prostate directly, a sobbing noise bursts through his grit teeth. Harry gives himself a little relief by grinding his hips down onto Draco’s bed, enough to clear his head so he can focus.

He pulls off of Draco’s cock with a pop, smiling at the waterfall of curses Draco levies his way. 

“I think you’re ready,” He tells him, enjoying the husky grit of his voice, evidence of a job well done. 

“I am going to kill you,” Draco gasps, the heat of his words by his hitching breaths. His flushed face crumples beautifully, Harry scoring his fingers over his prostate. “I am going to murder everyone you love.” 

“Yes, you’re very dangerous,” Harry tells him, nodding very seriously. 

“I’m so dangerous, Potter,” Draco growls. 

He props himself up onto his elbows, works his hips into Harry’s hand, thighs spread wide so he can plant his feet, greedy and single-minded as his spit-slick cock bounces against his abdomen. Harry gives him another finger, and a familiar trill bursts from his throat.

“Are you going to come for me?” Harry asks. 

Unable to take it anymore, he pushes his hands into his joggers and takes himself in hand, pumping himself restlessly, two, three times. He takes his hand back out before he ruins it. He’s not even trying to be gentle anymore, luxuriating in the motion and the stretch, in the press against that little walnut-shaped nub.

“Merlin, yes, yes, _Harry_ ,” Draco gasps, and then he throws his head back, a deliciously rumbly noise of pleasure falling from his mouth. 

He comes just like that, spurting hot cum against his flushed skin, so powerful that some of it hits his face, his wings shuddering. He reaches one hand out and clutches Harry’s wrist in grip so powerful Harry’s sure his bones are grinding, probably just to have an anchor as his hips seesaw back and forth. Harry crowds into his space, careful not to upset feathers that are no doubt sensitive, peppers his sweaty face with kisses, and fucks him through the rest of it. Draco meets him half-heatedly, kissing what he can reach, one hand reaching up to curl around his arm.

“There, now, how do you feel? Good?” Harry asks him, chuckling when Draco nods his head jerkily, still rolling through the aftershocks. 

He opens his eyes, and there is the smallest hint of a preternatural shine there, like liquid metal. 

“Did I _do_ good?” He has the audacity to choke out.  
  
Harry laughs in his face, and soothes the brief look of hurt with a hard kiss. “You were brilliant.” 

He finally takes his fingers out when the last of the trembles subside, and Draco covers his face with a hiss as Harry dips his fingers unabashedly into his mouth. Unable to resist the urge to tease him a bit, he says, sing-song, “You called me _Harry_.” 

“I did no such thing!” Draco protests. 

Then he surprises Harry by being overtaken with a fit of hazy giggles, looking unfairly pretty even through his lingering red-faced hysteria. Harry laughs with him, reaches up to pet his hair. Every now and then, he squirms, his feathers ruffling beautifully, and he hides his face in Harry’s shirt in embarrassment at the involuntary reaction.

“I believe I promised you a round with that machine.” Harry reminds him. “Are you tired? Do you want to stop!”

“No!” Draco practically yells. 

He smacks Harry on the arm when he laughs. He rests easily enough when Harry tells him to take a breather, leaving the room for some water and a washcloth. He puts up a fuss when Harry tells him to drink it all, but it’s like he realizes that he’s truly thirsty once he gets a taste of it, his hand pulling up to cover Harry’s as he drinks it down. Harry wipes his face clean, and then his chest, and his belly and the inside of his thighs. 

“You got so wet for me,” Harry hums appreciatively. 

“Is that bad?” 

“Of course not.” 

Draco is loose-limbed as Harry gets him back on his hands and knees. He clings briefly to Harry’s hand as he leaves the bed, but sighs and follows his guiding as Harry lines him up with the machine, the sway of his ass a truly tempting sight as Harry gets him into place.

He squirms as Harry spreads him open, admiring the sight of his glistening hole. “Move back just a little bit more, love.” 

The head of the dildo breaches him, and sinks in as Draco sighs and presses back. Harry double-checks that everything is set up, and flicks the machine onto its medium setting, knowing that gentle is not going to satisfy. With a series of clicks and a whirring noise, the spring in the middle of the machine’s arm jolts to life, sending the dildo pumping into Draco’s needy hole. Draco lets out a shocked little noise, his fingers curling into his duvet, and then begins a gentle rhythm, fucking himself back onto it.

“Good?” Harry asks, stroking a hand down his flank. 

He climbs back onto the bed to just take him in. When he gets close enough, one of Draco’s wings curls towards him. He’s a sight, sighing and whining into the air, his hair sticking to his chin and neck. 

“Good,” he chokes out. 

He leans forward, just a little bit, and the change of angle has him letting out a weak little cry, his thighs trembling. Harry can see that he’s steadily getting hard again. He reaches out to cup Draco’s cheek, his skin warm against Harry’s hand. He turns his head and sucks Harry’s thumb into his mouth, only to moan loudly around it.

“Do you want more?” 

He’s met with a chorus of “Please, please, please, please,” so Harry leans over and ups the speed. It’s not the fastest, but the difference is clear, because Draco cries out and dips his head, his eyes falling closed. Harry strokes his hand along the nearest wing, and then digs his knuckles in, and Draco cries out an approximation of his name and comes again. 

Harry asks if he’d like to stop, because he’s whining and tilting his hips away, but he’s still hard, and he shakes his head no, then asks very sweetly if he can suck Harry’s cock. 

He shouldn’t--he _really_ shouldn’t. It’s confusing to set a boundary and then blur it. But there’s this lovely creature moaning and crying out, bright and needing him, and his self-control has frayed, and he’s not sure how much of Draco’s allure he can actually use when he’s so fucked out, so he follows his impulse in a way he hasn't since Hogwarts.

Harry says, “Okay, alright,” and kneels so he can pull his joggers down just enough to snap beneath his balls, and he readjusts himself until he’s in reach. 

Draco smiles up at him, looking a bit dazed but no less victorious for it, and takes Harry in hand. He drops a soft kiss on Harry’s shaft, and then trails a long lick up the length of him, pumping him slowly. His nails are still painted red, Harry’s red, and the sight makes him twitch in Draco’s grip, which earns him low purr. 

Harry curls a hand into his tangled hair and gently pulls him forth, and Draco pulls his foreskin back and takes him happily into his tempting mouth, and the wet sucking heat of it is quickly too much, combined with the throaty moans that sound in Draco’s throat as he takes the thrusts of the dildo, rolling back into it. He comes just like that, bucking into Draco’s mouth, and Draco easily swallows his release down. A trickle of Harry’s spend glistens on his lips as Harry breathlessly apologizes and pulls out. Just as he tucks himself back in, and leans down to kiss it off of his mouth, Draco keens and jerks and comes again, wings retracting tightly to his back as he reaches out. 

This time there’s the barest hint of pain in the noises falling from his throat, so Harry is quick to shut the machine off completely. He helps Draco dismount, making a mental note to clean up later, and bundles him close, crooning as Draco sobs his relief into the air. He’s mumbling slurred thank-yous into Harry’s neck, throwing one trembling leg over his hip, and Harry feels his cock gives one valiant attempt at twitching back to life. Harry rolls onto his back to give his wings some relief, and spends a good half-hour kissing and soothing him, his hands stroking his sides in a brisk rhythm.

“Feeling better?” He asks, as Draco finally crests above the waves of post-coitus delirium and gives him an uncharacteristically shy look.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks. 

The question makes him realize that he really is quite tired, but he doesn’t think it’s a lie when he says, “No.” 

Draco clings to him, and Harry drops a kiss onto his sweaty temple. They linger in comfortable silence until Draco’s stomach interrupts them, rumbling discontentedly. Draco curses, and Harry roars with laughter. 


End file.
